


In Your Blood

by endearinglysad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endearinglysad/pseuds/endearinglysad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s powers started appearing when he turned thirteen and Dean’s mostly learned to live with them. But when Sam’s powers start flaring out of control, Dean suddenly has to keep Sam and John from killing each other, keep Sam from leaving, and confront his own feelings for his little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Blood

**Author's Note:**

> [Click here](http://endearinglysad.livejournal.com/7980.html#cutid1) for warnings. (P.S. This WILL spoil the story!)

Dean stares at his cards, then at the man seated across from him.

He’s got three tens—could be good enough, but he’s not sure what the other man is holding. He smiles at Sam, who’s sitting next to him.

Sam fakes a yawn. Dean folds.

He loses what’s in the pot but still manages to come out three hundred dollars ahead, and fifteen minutes later he and Sam are outside the run-down bar and headed home.

“What the hell, man? I totally could have won that last hand.”

“Nah. He wanted you to call so he could accuse us of cheating.”

“So?”

“He had a gun, Dean.”

“So? I had a gun. You had a gun.”

Sam won’t look at him.

“You didn’t bring your gun? Sam, I told you—”

“You told me we were going out for a drink and to grab my best fake I.D. You didn’t say anything about a redneck gunfight. Besides, I have work tomorrow and the last thing I want is to spend the night in jail for carrying concealed into a fucking bar.”

“Rednecks are the least of our worries, Sam, and you know it. Dad doesn’t want us going anywhere unarmed.”

Sam scoffs at the mention of Dad.

“You know what? Fuck it, nevermind. Let’s just get this money home.”

Sam silently falls into step beside Dean, walking silently for several minutes. Then he swerves in closer until they’re almost pressed together from shoulder to hip and Dean feels like one wrong step will tangle their legs and bring them both down. Dean tries to ease away; this is so not the time.

Sam notices and follows, a wry smirk and knowing eyes focused on Dean as he leans in to speak in Dean’s ear. “We don’t have to take it home, you know.”

Dean keeps walking. Dad will kill them if they don’t bring the money home. And there’s no way he’s going to let Sam charm him into disobeying orders again. He’s angry and he wants to stay that way.

“You’re not angry,” Sam says confidently, straightening up and taking a small step away, still close enough for their hands to brush but far enough for Dean to breathe. “You wouldn’t have even considered it if you were.”

“Damn it, Sam, I told you not to pull that mind-shit with me. Stay out of my fucking head.”

“Whatever, Dean. It’s not like I even have to try to read your mind anymore. I can always tell what you’re thinking. Like I know you think Dad’s plan is stupid too, and you’re just too chicken to fucking tell him.”

Dean stops, and grabs Sam by the sleeve of his jacket to stop him too. “Look, Sam, I know you’re upset about leaving again, but Dad’s just—”

Several branches in the tree overhead crack and a shower of leaves cascade down around them. They stand in silence for a moment. Sam is staring at him, fists clenched, eyes reflecting the yellow streetlight, gaze boring in to Dean’s like he’s trying to will Dean to do something. Dean breaks the moment with a blown-out breath and runs a hand through his hair, using the motion to drop his eyes to the sidewalk between them.

Sam huffs in frustration and with an annoyed _Whatever_ , turns to continue the short walk back to the tiny house where Dad’s waiting.

Dean lets him go, listening to Sam’s footsteps echo in the summer night, blending with cars and crickets and distant people. He can see their front door from here, can still see Sam too, and he watches Sam walk inside. The far-off sound of the door slamming shut gets him moving again, something else for Sam and Dad to fight about, and he walks slowly, hoping they’re done by the time he gets there.

When he opens the door himself, the only shouting he hears is coming from the television. Dad’s still at the kitchen table where they left him, and down the hall, the door to the room he and Sam are sharing is shut tight.

Dean drops the money on the table in front of his dad and then goes to pull a beer from the fridge. John gives Dean a nod and a tired smile as he pushes the bills into his pocket and goes back to reading. “Any trouble?”

“Nah,” Dean answers. “Quiet night.”

“What happened with Sam?”

Dean hesitates. John still isn’t looking at him; he sounds distracted and he’s slowly flipping pages in a dusty, hand-written book, but Dean can see the tightness in his shoulders and back—not a casual question, then. “Nothing,” he answers, trying for casual himself. “He’s pissed because I wouldn’t let him play.”

John looks up and pins Dean with his eyes, and for a minute Dean is reminded strongly of his brother. He’s pretty sure his dad is about to call him on the lie, but John doesn’t say anything, and after a long moment just makes a noncommittal grunt and goes back to his book. “I’ve almost got this thing pinned down. We’ll be out of here tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.”

“Tomorrow?” Dean asked, surprised.

“Problem?” John asks. He doesn’t look up this time.

“No, sir.”

John closes his book, puts it on the stack to his right, and pulls another off the stack to his left. “Start packing so we can leave ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean drains his bottle and dumps it in the trash.

Halfway down the hall his dad’s voice calls out after him and he stops to listen. “And get Sam ready; we need him on this one.”

Dean curses under his breath, glad his father can’t see him from where he’s sitting. He scrubs a hand across his mouth and opens the bedroom door, hoping Sam has calmed down in the last thirty minutes.

Sam’s pacing the floor like an angry mountain lion, twisting an old t-shirt in his hands. He’s long and lean, as tall as Dean now, and Dean feels a familiar stab of wanting low in his gut. He tamps it down as quick as he can, but Sam stumbles, dropping the shirt and spinning to face Dean, the anger on his face turning to hunger in an instant. Dean wonders why he bothers trying to hide anything from Sam anymore.

Sam starts for him, but Dean swerves around him, pretending he doesn’t notice Sam’s reaching hands. Sam growls behind him but lets him pass. Dean thinks at him as hard as he can, it’s not about not wanting it, and Sam takes a deep breath and visibly calms behind him.

Until Dean pulls a duffel out from under his bed.

Sam explodes. “I’m supposed to have another week!”

Dean tries to stay calm. “We’re leaving tomorrow, maybe Wednesday.”

“I can’t just leave, Dean, not this time. I’m actually starting to have a life here. I have friends, I have a job—I’m eighteen now, and Dad can’t just drag me around anymore!”

“This is your life, Sam—this is _our_ life. You know this is important. We need your help.”

“You need bait, and I’m not fucking doing it!” Sam storms out of the room and Dean follows him into the kitchen. Sam slams both fists down onto the table. “I’m not going.”

John leans back in his chair and sighs, rubbing his eyes with one hand and tossing his pen onto the table with the other. “This is not open for discussion. Now go pack.” His voice is deceptively calm.

“No,” Sam shoots back. “I’m done. If you want to go, fine, but I’m staying here.”

“People are dying, Sam. We have a job to do. Now go get packed and be ready to go when I say.”

“I’m not jumping when you say anymore. I have a job here and I can’t walk away just because you want to go chasing some monster halfway across the country.”

“Sam—” Dean starts, trying to calm his brother down, but John speaks over him, angry now.

“You’re going to let innocent people die for minimum wage at a video store? I didn’t raise you to be so selfish!”

“So not actively trying to get myself killed makes me selfish?”

They’re yelling at each other so Dean is the only one to notice that the table between them is shaking. One of the book piles teeters slightly and John’s pen rolls across the table.

“You’re not going to get killed if you follow orders. Now go pack your stuff.”

The table skids towards John, moving a foot from its original location. Most of the books hit the floor. All three men freeze.

John is the first to speak. His voice is cold, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Sam. “Clean this up. Be ready to go when I get back tomorrow.” He grabs his journal from the table—one of the few books that didn’t go flying—gets his jacket and keys, and leaves. Dean listens to the Impala’s engine fade into the night.

Sam is standing still, staring at the table. Dean wants to be pissed at him, but mostly he’s just tired, and it’s not like Sam will listen to him anyway. He starts picking up books.

“Why won’t you tell him?” Sam mutters.

Dean doesn’t answer.

“Why won’t you ever take my side?”

Dean slams a book down on the table. “It’s not about _sides_ , Sam, it’s about doing what’s right. Dad’s just trying to save as many people as he can, and you may not like how he does it but that doesn’t make him some kind of monster.”

“I never said he was a monster, Dean. But how long are we supposed to live like this? When do we get to have our own lives? Don’t you want something more than…roach motels and cheap bars? Scraping by with poker games and credit card fraud?”

“Them’s the breaks, Sammy,” Dean replies. He tries for a light tone, but Sam just looks sad. “And it’s worth it.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s not. I want to go to college, Dean. I want a real life.” He takes a deep breath. “I got accepted to Stanford, a scholarship and everything. And I’m going. I’m not going to live this life forever.”

He falls silent, watching Dean like he’s waiting for a sign, but Dean is sure, for the first time since Sam’s freaky mind powers kickstarted at thirteen, that he is giving absolutely nothing away. There’s nothing for Sam to pick up on because Dean can’t think or feel anything right now.

He leaves Sam standing alone in the kitchen, and follows his dad out the door. He’s walking, heading back to the bar they’d left earlier, where there’s an empty stool and a bottle with his name on it. Halfway there he crosses to the other side of the street to avoid the pile of fresh green leaves littering the sidewalk.

  


| -*-*- |

  


Dean wakes up on the couch the next morning with a splitting headache and nasty taste in his mouth. He’s never really gotten that drunk before, and he looks around as best as he can without moving his head to make sure he stumbled into the right apartment. One of Sam’s gargantuan boots is sitting next to the coffee table, and Dean closes his eyes again, relieved.

When he can bear the thought of getting up, he rolls of the couch and staggers to the bathroom. The apartment is quiet, and sure enough, after a quick check, it’s empty too. Sam’s bed is stripped, sheets and blanket in a pile at the foot of the bed, and all of his clothes are gone. Dean slumps down onto his bed and stares at the empty half of the room.

Gone then. Already.

He’d done his best the night before to forget that Sam had ever even mentioned the possibility of leaving, and by the time he’d come home he’d been drunk enough to be pretty sure Sam had been bluffing.

Now he remembers: Sam never bluffs.

Dean’s pissed. After all he’s done for that kid, and Sam just walks out without even saying goodbye? And how was Sam going to get by without them? What if something happened? Dean feels a stab of frantic fear at the thought of Sam in trouble, and without him or dad there to help. He’s got to stop Sam, at least try to talk some sense into him before he goes. He hauls himself off the bed and turns and finds Sam standing in the doorway, watching him.

Sam’s got a small smile on his face, looking equal parts rueful and fond. “I could feel you angsting from the driveway.”

Dean doesn’t even try to stop the wave of relief that washes over him, and Sam sucks in a breath of surprise and steps closer. Sometimes it scares him how tied in to him Sam seems to be, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, just how much of Sam’s feelings are just a ricochet of his own.

“I was just putting my stuff in the car.”

“Dad’s back?” Dean asks warily, not sure if he’s ready for another round.

“The car is,” Sam says, shrugging. His mouth thins out and his face darkens. “Dad left a note—I was just going to wake you up.”

“How much time have we got?”

Sam glances at his watch. “About twenty minutes.”

“Shit,” Dean murmurs. His duffel was still sitting on his bed from the night before and he grabs it and starts shoving clothes in.

“All the weapons are loaded,” Sam tells him, “and most of the other stuff. There’s a bit of food left in the kitchen and a few books laying around, but I’ll grab them. All you have to do is pack your clothes and stuff.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” He pulls the rest of his shirts out of the closet, then kneels to make sure nothing was hiding under the bed. When he turns again, Sam is still standing just inside the room, watching him.  
“What? Dad’s gonna be here any minute.”

“Come with me, Dean.”

Dean pretends he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about. “I’ll be there in a minute. Just let me get the rest of my stuff.”

Sam huffs and steps closer. “Dean—”

Dean shoves the last pair of his jeans into his back and pulls the drawstring tight, then swings the bag over his shoulder. He can feel Sam behind him, following him into the living room, and he tosses his bag towards the door before turning to face his brother.

Sam speaks before he can. “I want you to come with me.”

Dean’s already shaking his head. “I can’t. Dad needs me. Someone has to watch his back.”

“Dad has friends, other hunters that can watch his back. It doesn’t have to be you.” Sam’s moving slowly closer with every word. “I need you with me, Dean.”

“Why?” Dean demands, and adds flippantly, “You need a study buddy? I stopped helping you you’re your homework when you hit high school, Sammy.”

Sam kisses him. It’s gentle and they’re not touching anywhere but their mouths, but it feels like fireworks are going off in Dean’s head. Then Sam’s deepening the kiss, taking that last step closer so they’re pressed chest to chest, and the fireworks are inside the apartment as the television explodes in a spray of sparks and glass.

They stare at the smoking box in silence. Reality descends and Dean turns on Sam, who looks back at him sheepishly. Dean decides to ignore the kiss for now and gestures to the destroyed television. “You think you can go to Stanford?”

Sam’s embarrassment disappears. “Yes,” he says stubbornly.

Dean laughs in disbelief. “So, what? Are you going to destroy a classroom if you get a bad grade? Burn down your dorm if someone’s shitty music is too loud? Blast some asshole across the room if he hits on your girl?”

“I can control it, Dean, I just have to get out of here, and away from—”

“Away from what? Dad? This life? It’s not gonna matter, Sam. And pretty soon, someone’s going to get hurt.”

Sam’s shaking his head in denial, but Dean can see the fear in his eyes. “I can learn to control it. I know I can, Dean.”

“How? And how long is that gonna take?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just pushes past Dean and heads for the front door. Halfway there it opens; both boys freeze. Dean is sure his guilt is written all over his face, that his father will be able to tell just by looking that Dean just kissed his little brother.

John surveys the living room, immediately noticing the broken glass and scorch marks on the carpet in front of the still-smoking television. His gaze jumps to Sam. “What the hell happened?”

Sam stares at his father, and Dean can see enough of Sam’s face to read the betrayal there. “It was an accident,” Sam mutters bitterly.

“An accident,” John echoes. He’s angry. “Damn it, Sam, we needed our deposit back so we could make this trip.”

Sam glares mutinously at his father, but to Dean’s surprise he keeps his mouth shut. Silently, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash and holds it out toward John, waiting for his father to take it before scooping up Dean’s bag and leaving the house. John watches him leave and then turns back to Dean with a helpless look on his face.

John and Dean make short work of clearing out the rest of the house while Sam waits in the car. They don’t have far to travel today, just heading two towns over to the house John’s been studying for the last several weeks, one he’s pretty sure is being haunted by a particularly nasty spirit. Twenty people had died in the house in the last seventy years, all of them teenaged males, and enough of them that even the local cops had noticed the pattern and had done what they could to keep the house closed up tight. The city council had tried to have the house demolished at one point, but it had been declared a historic site in the eighties—due to the large, fully-intact speakeasy housed behind a hidden wall in the basement—and red tape had saved the house from destruction. Now it was boarded up and mostly abandoned, except by the occasional group of teenagers out on a dare. As soon as dad had shown him the victim list, Dean had known how this was going to go down, which meant Sam had known soon after.

Sam stays silent for the entire ride, staring out his window, and Dad isn’t in much of a talking mood either. By the time they pull up in front of the run-down old farm house Dean is so ready to be out of the car that he’s got one foot on the ground before John even puts the car in park. Sam gets out silently behind him, but he’s looking at Dean and not the house. His fingers brush against the back of Dean’s hand and Dean feels calmer immediately. He can’t help smiling at Sam, and they stare at each other until Dean remembers that John is there with them. Dean glances around furtively for his father, hoping he hadn’t noticed the silent exchange, but John is staring down the road behind the car, watching another vehicle approach and pull to a stop behind the Impala.

It’s Caleb, and Dean is glad to see him. He and Sam both hug the other man, and even John is smiling and clapping a friendly hand on Caleb’s shoulder. Sam looks happier than he has in weeks; Caleb had spent a good portion of one summer teaching Sam how to throw knives, and Sam had looked up to him ever since. He sticks close to Caleb or Dean as they circle the house getting set up, and continues to avoid John.

Daylight is fading by the time all the equipment has been moved into the house. John and Caleb are set up in the main parlor, monitoring Sam and Dean by video and listening for Dean’s signal. Sam and Dean are in the basement where all the bodies have been found, just in front of the door to the speakeasy, where in 1927 a teenage boy named Jacob Barnes had surprised a pair of bootleggers who’d shot him dead on the spot. No one knew what they’d done with his body, but the spirit of Jacob Barnes had been re-enacting his own murder ever since. Since they had no body to burn, they needed to trap the spirit permanently, and Sam was the bait.

Nothing to do now but wait.

Dean taps his shotgun against his leg, content to enjoy the silence; he isn’t surprised when Sam starts talking.

“Caleb’s a good hunter.”

Dean grunts noncommittally; he agrees, but he doesn’t want to encourage conversation.

Sam continues. “He and Dad work pretty well together.”

Dean realizes where Sam is going with this. “Sam—”

“Caleb could watch his back, or someone else could. It doesn’t have to be you, Dean.”

Sam is careful not to touch him, knowing that they’re being watched, but Dean can feel him vibrating next to him, like Sam is shaking with the effort of not moving any closer to Dean.

“It shouldn’t have to be someone else, Sam. He’s our family—you take care of family.”

“What about me? Aren’t I your family too?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Sam. You’re the one choosing to leave, and it’s not fair to ask me to choose between you and dad.”

Sam’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is small. “I can’t stay here, Dean.”

“Why not?” Dean demands. “What is it you think is so perfect out there that’s magically going to make your life so much better? Do you think going to college is going to somehow make your life easy or give you everything you’ve ever wanted? Because it won’t. It’s going to suck just as much and be just as dangerous only you won’t have someone there to look out for you.”

“It’s not that. I have to get away from dad.”

“Why? What did he ever do to you that was so bad?”

Sam’s voice is low, harsh with anger and pain. “He’s afraid of me. He thinks I’m dangerous.”

Dean is stunned. “…What?” he asks finally. “That’s crazy. Of course he’s not afraid of you.”

“Dean.” Sam says, like he can’t believe Dean is so dense. “It’s been getting worse for the past few years. And today, when he came in and saw the TV? I read what he was thinking. It was all he could do not to go for his gun, and he thought “I have to end this’ so loud it was like he said it.” He pauses for a minute, then continues. “He thinks I’m a monster, Dean. And you know what he does to monsters.”

Dean has no idea how to respond to that. He knows dad would never hurt Sam, but he has no idea how to convince Sam of that. Luckily, Sam doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer. He just leans back against the wall and turns his face away from Dean.

They sit in silence for what feels like hours. Dean’s nodding off, head lolling back against the wall, when he realizes the basement is getting lighter. He jerks awake, starting, and gets on his feet, reaching to pull Sam up with him, searching for the source of the light.

Wooden shelves line the wall that hides the entrance to the speakeasy. The light is coming from cracks in the wall, outlining the secret door.

“Do you hear that?” Sam whispers.

Dean strains, but the room is silent except for his and Sam’s breathing. “No. What is it?”

“Music. Jazz.”

Dean glances at his brother, then back at the wall, realizing that Sam is probably seeing and hearing the last things Jacob Barnes did before he died, and as soon as that door opens, Sam is going to die too.

“Okay, change of plans,” Dean barks, shoving Sam towards the stairs up to the kitchen.

Sam’s fighting him slightly, trying to move closer to the door. “I just want to see…” he mumbles, then trails off, watching the seams of light get wider as the door opens.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, but it’s too late. The door is fully open now, and Dean has a second of seeing the spirit coalescing into a human shape before it’s zooming across the room towards Sam. Without thinking, he raises his shotgun and blasts the spirit with rock salt and it dissipates as quickly as it had formed. He starts toward Sam to see if he’s alright, but Sam shouts “Behind you!” and suddenly Dean is flying across the room.

He lands in front of the brightly lit doorway and the spirit is on him in seconds. A sharp pain explodes in his chest and Dean is gasping for air and clawing at the spirit of Jacob Barnes as it shudders and winks in and out of existence above him.

Then the pain is gone, and Dean is free. He scrambles away then turns back in time to see Jacob Barnes burst into flame behind him. Jacob screams as he burns, and Dean realizes after a second that something is wrong. The spirit should have burned away by now, but instead he’s still burning, caught in permanent flames and screaming in agony.

Dean looks to Sam. Sam is staring at Jacob. His hair is being ruffled by some imaginary breeze and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides and his eyes never leave the burning ghost. Dean realizes with a sick lurch in his stomach what’s happening.

“Sam!” he yells, straining to be heard above the screaming ghost. He has to break Sam’s concentration. He hauls himself up and runs to Sam, grabbing Sam’s arms and shaking him slightly. Sam just keeps staring, and the ghost screams on behind him.

Dean does the only thing he can think of. He grabs Sam by the face and kisses him, mashing their lips together with more force that finesse. Sam’s arms immediately relax and circle around him, and Dean spins them around to watch Jacob finally burn away into a few tiny pieces of floating ash. The light disappears.

Sam is still kissing him in the darkness, and Dean kisses him back for a minute before gently pulling away. He can hear thundering feet on the stairs now, and his dad’s voice calling their names, and he takes a giant step away from his brother just in time for John and Caleb to appear at the bottom of the stairs, flashlight beams bouncing frantically around the room.

John calms as soon as he sees they’re alive. “What happened?” he immediately demands.

Dean looks at Sam, who stares back at him desperately. “Jacob Barnes showed up,” Dean answers.

“And?” John barks.

“Not sure. He went after Sam, I shot him with rock salt, and he just disappeared.”

John stares hard at Dean, and then at Sam. “Disappeared?”

Dean thinks quickly. He can tell John doesn’t believe them. “Yeah. I don’t know, maybe the gunshot scared him away.” He can’t tell John what Sam did, not after what Sam told him earlier. “What about you—why’d it take you so long to get down here?”

John is still studying at Dean; it’s Caleb who answers. “We saw you two get up, then the camera cut out. Then the door slammed shut, locked us in. John was about to try going through the window when it opened again on its own. We were afraid…” he trails off.

Dean tries a smile. “Well, as you can see we’re fine. Guess we scared him off for now.”

No one moves. John finally speaks. “Go upstairs and help Caleb pack up. We’ll try again tomorrow night. I’m going to take a look around.”

Dean follows Sam and Caleb up the stairs. None of them say much as they work, and in a few minutes John joins them. He stands in the doorway and watches and they carefully stow Caleb’s video equipment back into its metal boxes. When they’re done, John speaks.

“Now tell me what really happened down there.”

Dean very carefully doesn’t look at Sam. “What do you mean?”

“The room’s clean. Completely. No EMF, no signs a spirit was ever there.” He turns to Sam. “What did you do?”

Color seeps into Sam’s face. “I didn’t do anything,” Sam bites out. “We told you, it disappeared.”

“Bullshit,” John growls.

Caleb clears his throat. “I’m just going to go out for a smoke. Meet you outside.” He slips out of the parlor and Dean can hear the front door open and shut behind him. He wishes he could go with him.

John’s still staring at Sam. “Dad—” Dean starts, but a look from John silences him.

John turns back to Sam. “What did you do?” he asks again, slowly. Dangerously.

“I destroyed the spirit,” Sam answers defiantly.

“How?”

“I burned it up.”

John is silent, then, “With your mind?”

“Yes,” Sam answers.

John takes a deep breath, finally turning away from Sam. He looks old all of the sudden, haggard, like the weight of the world just dropped on his shoulders.

“Dad,” Dean tries again, “it was an accident. He did it to save me.”

John just shakes his head and stays silent. When he finally looks up again, his face is resigned. “This is a problem,” he says.

“What? Why?” Sam demands. “The spirit is gone, the house is clear, I saved Dean—why is that a problem?”

“Accidentally. You can’t control it, Sam. You could just as easily have hurt Dean. Or Caleb or I. And this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. It’s escalating.”

“He can learn to control it,” Dean interjects desperately.

“How? There’s no one to train him. And until he figures it out on his own—if he figures it out on his own—we’re all vulnerable. That’s the problem.”

“Well, it won’t be your problem for much longer,” Sam bites out.

“Why not?” John asks.

“Sam—” Dean cuts in. He shakes his head, begging Sam to stop, but Sam ignores him. “I’m leaving. I got accepted to Stanford, and I’m going.”

John responds immediately. “You’re not going. You’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll turn evil? Start killing people?” Sam’s tone is sarcastic, but there’s real fear underneath it. John doesn’t answer and Dean watches the color drain out of Sam’s face. “You do. You think I’m going to hurt people.” Sam sounds so betrayed; Dean can’t stand it.

Even John looks pained by Sam’s words, but then his face hardens again. “Until I know for sure, I can’t take that chance, Sammy.”

Sam is staring at the floor, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut. Sam looks like he’s trying to get himself under control, but Dean knows the argument isn’t over. In fact, knowing Sam, John’s admission probably made him even more determined to leave. Then he notices Sam’s hair is moving, shifting in an impossible breeze. “Sam,” he whispers, and starts for his brother, just as the ceiling bursts into flames.

“Sam!” he shouts, tackling him through the doorway and into the hall just as a ceiling beam collapses in a shower of sparks. John is trapped on the other side of the room, near the doorway to the dining room, and Dean locks eyes with him for just a moment before the flames obscure his view.

Sam is coughing below him, clutching at the sleeves of his jacket and saying Dean’s name. “Dean—I can’t control it. We have to get out of here,” he gasps, then descends into coughing again.

Dean drags him up and they make their way to the front door. The early morning air is freezing compared to the heat inside the house, but Dean gulps clean air gratefully as they move away from the house. The entire house is ablaze, and all within minutes.

Sam is still clinging to him and Dean half drags him toward the Impala and then Caleb is on the other side of Sam helping them move away from the blazing house. “Where’s John?” he shouts.

Dean feels cold fear race through him. “He should have come out through the kitchen—he was headed that way when the ceiling came down!” he shouts back.

Caleb is already shaking his head. “I came from that side, trying to find a way in. He never came out!”

Dean lets go of Sam, lowering him to the ground and then turns back toward the house. Caleb clearly sees what Dean is thinking and grabs his arm. “You can’t go in there—the walls are going to come down any second!” As if to punctuate the statement, one side of the house caves in with a moaning crash, followed quickly by the back wall and then the roof.

Dean can do nothing but stare at the burning pile of rubble.

  


| -*-*- |

  


Dean wakes up at a motel across town. They’d stumbled in just after dawn, having barely avoided the emergency crews rushing to put out the fire. Sam is still sleeping, curled up in a ball on the other bed. Caleb had left shortly after they’d checked in, headed back to the destroyed house with a fake badge in hand, saying he’d call once he had any information.

Dean lays in bed, staring out the window, trying very hard not to think about his father or what he and Sam are going to do now. He looks over at Sam again, and suddenly he can’t stand to be in the same room as him. He climbs out of bed, throws on some fresh clothes—the ones he was wearing last night reek of smoke and ash, and Dean throws them away as quickly as he can—and heads out to get breakfast even though he doesn’t feel like eating.

When he returns to the room, Sam is awake, sorting his clothes and repacking his bag. He glances at Dean but can’t entirely meet his eyes. Sam’s eyes are red-rimmed, partly from lack of sleep and partly something else.

They pack quietly. Sam’s clothes go into the garbage with Dean’s. Neither of them want to touch dad’s bag, so Dean just puts it back in the car, shoves it as far back in the trunk as he can get it. When he goes back inside, Sam is sitting on the bed, staring at his hands.

He looks up at Dean, eyes wet. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Dean can’t answer him, but he also can’t leave Sam alone. He walks to Sam and puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder while Sam cries.

Eventually, Sam looks up at him again. “I’m not going to Stanford,” he says.

Dean sits beside him. “I know,” is all he says.

They stay like that for long minutes until Dean’s cell phone rings.

He answers. It’s Caleb.

“What did you find out?” he asks. He listens to Caleb for a moment, then stands, suddenly full of nervous energy. “Are they sure?”

Sam is watching him when he hangs up the phone. “That was Caleb. There were no remains.”

Sam looks pained. “I know, Dean, I saw the house this morning. It was completely destroyed.”

Dean cuts him off. “No, Sam, no _human_ remains.”

Sam stares at him, realization and relief spreading slowly across his face. “Dad wasn’t in the house,” he says slowly.

Dean feels wild, confused and relieved and angry and giddy. “Dad’s still alive,” he finishes.

Sam’s face tightens. “Why would he want us to think he was dead? That I had—”

Dean drops down in front of Sam, grabbing his arms. “He had to know we’d find out, Sam.”

Sam can’t answer but he nods and sucks in a deep breath. He stands, pulling away from Dean. “Now we just have to figure out why, and where he’s gone.”

Dean stands too, and shoulders his bag. “Let’s go,” he says, opening the door and stepping outside. “We’ve got work to do.”

 

  


| The End |

  



End file.
